


Stained Apology

by anfarlamb



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 2020 L'Manberg Election on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Angst, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Wilbur Soot-centric, i still cant do tags either, i still miss l'manberg wil, please read notes for full warnings!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29730111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anfarlamb/pseuds/anfarlamb
Summary: Bows and arrows never really seemed to work out for Tommy and Wilbur. From the Dream duel, to, well, the entire war, it always ended in tears and guilt placed where it didn't belong, and neither of them knew how to discard the unwanted feelings or the death that usually accompanied the pain.Their exile did not exempt them from this issue. In fact, in the very first moments, it escalated it.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Stained Apology

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi! instead of posting anything mildly related to the current lore, i decided to post this LOL  
> in my last fic (not required to read to understand this btw!) i wrote like One line about this scene specifically and simply had to write it  
> warnings r for canon-typical violence (mans gets shot), and obviously major character death in case u didn't see that. its a bit shorter than what i normally write but ! i still like it so here u r  
> also if any CCs want this taken down or altered for any reason id be happy to do so, this is about the characters not the ppl. u know the drill
> 
> thank you, please enjoy :]

It was raining when Wilbur and Tommy were exiled, which meant that trying to run away was a lot harder than it should’ve been.

Wilbur Soot was a general, a president, a leader. Perhaps it would’ve benefitted him to focus on his other titles — a brother, son, father, friend — but they didn’t carry the same sparkle that he’d been deprived of. The gleam showed up in other places too, scribbled on official documents with a quill and some dark ink. _Electoral Ballet._ Technically that had been Tommy’s hand, not his own, but the details didn’t matter. Not now.

He may have lost the election, but his natural ability to lead did not fall away in times when it was needed. When Tommy turned to him with a frightened gaze, and when the crowd around him burst into a cacophony of noise, he snagged his younger brother’s sleeve and immediately launched them into a half-dash. He didn’t really have to say anything, not that there was time to give a speech. 

Not until a conveniently placed rock stuck itself underneath Tommy’s sneaker. The boy fell face-first into the mud, and panic burst in Wilbur’s chest like fireworks. 

“Tommy—” Wilbur pivoted on his heel to grab his shirt again and pull him to his feet, keenly aware of the arrows being loaded in bows and the swords being grasped in hands. _We have to go. We have to go._ He could still hear Schlatt’s voice like an alarm bell, splitting through the calm, terrified silence that pressed into his ears. 

_“Get ‘em outta here!”_

His order was quick, hardly notable above the shouting and the constant plinking of raindrops. “Tommy, run!” 

So they did.

The mud was not something that was easy to avoid, but they hopped uncertainly over large puddles, Tommy still trying to brush off the oozing goop off him as they hurried away. Tubbo’s potions of invisibility had been dropped in their haste, and so Wilbur just had to pray that the haze of the rain kept them concealed from their attackers. Tommy kept up well, and the exiled ran off, weaving around a dark wall to pause briefly. 

“Wilbur—!” This time, a hand caught his tattered sleeve, and he, heaving for breath, looked back at Tommy. “What do we— what do we do! We can’t, we can’t go back, can we? I thought—!”

His knuckles whitened as he tried to conjure a response, but there was nothing. There was no excuse for how terribly things had gone. What was he even supposed to _say?_ Was he supposed to apologize? _Sorry for setting up that election and getting us both exiled._ His mouth opened, but another arrow whizzed past their skulls, the words turned to ash, and they had to keep going.

The duo pushed themselves to the edge of the L’manbergian territory, hoping they’d thrown off any assailants, but there were still footsteps, still the hissing of projectiles, still the sizzling of nearby potions. Tommy was more skilled at dodging than escaping, and he struggled to keep up with his brother’s weaving and ducking. His eyes flickered quickly around, trying to deduce where he’d gone, footsteps uncertain.

Too uncertain.

It wasn’t that he slipped, but one moment his body was filled with panic and concern and fear, and the next, the feelings tripled, spurred on by a cold flash of agony that radiated from his shoulder. A half-formed scream tore itself from his throat and he clamped his hand over his mouth, gritting his teeth fiercely together, muscles tensing all at once to resist the urge to fall forward. _Shit._

That arrow _hurt._

Wilbur’s footsteps were erratic as he tried to keep heading forward, vision blurring with confusion. The pain only escalated, and he pressed a hand to where the injury was; an arrow greeted him, as well as sticky, crimson blood that coated his palm immediately. Bile spiraled in his throat. He had to find Tommy. Where was Tommy? It was raining and they were being chased by people who wanted them dead, all thanks to Schlatt’s orders. _I was stupid for trusting him, I never should’ve trusted him, I’m—_

A breath, unnerved, ripped through his teeth, forcing him back to the real world. There were no more footsteps. He was alone. _Where is Tommy?_ Maybe he’d taken a left instead of a right. Wilbur leaned back against a tree that towered above him, and, unable to support himself on trembling limbs, sunk against its base. 

His skull leaned against it, and surprisingly, he found that there was something behind him. The bottom of the tree had a fairly large hole in it, one that sheltered him from the biting winds and the chilling rain, so he pressed himself as best as he could into it. Considering his lanky frame and his wound, it wasn’t that comfortable, but the pain was already consuming him and he had no idea what else to do.

_What if they got him and not me?_

No, no, no, that wasn’t possible, it couldn’t be, and suddenly he was back up on his feet again, gritting his teeth harder than before, ignoring the way his shoulders slumped and the way that weakness instantly filled his head.

“Tommy—”

His voice sounded so unnatural and he hated it. But there wasn’t anything he could do; he had to find Tommy. _I have to make sure he’s okay. I’m the one who got him into this mess, and if he’s died…_ Again. If he died again because he’d failed (again), then there was certainly no forgiving him. Ever. And that was simply not an option, so he had to find Tommy, he had to make sure things were okay, just as he always did. It was ironed into his blood from the start. His brothers were born of chaos and bloodshed, his father of a similar background. He was not like that. He had to make sure Tommy was okay.

Wilbur couldn’t. He tried to step forward, made it dizzily into the nearest clearing, and then crumpled again to another tree, breathing too hard. One of his hands made its way to the ground, where he pulled hard on the bloody and slick grass beneath him, and the other pressed fiercely on his chest, barely attempting to stop crimson from soaking his uniform any more than it already had. Guilt curled around his shoulders, and shame locked chains around his ankles.

Was this how Tommy had felt, bleeding out on the Prime Path, an arrow pinning him to the water that sloshed around him? Had he too felt like there was no justice in the world, like everything was twisted against him, like nobody really cared and nothing really mattered except one person? Or had things been different because he'd been younger, with the sparkle in his eyes that blinded him to the reality that Wilbur could see?

When he’d insisted on the duel, they’d been stupid to let the boy do it. They all knew that Dream never missed his shots more than three times, and Tommy had very little training with a bow. His skill was with a sword or the fire in his words, not in the delicate pulling of a projectile. Tommy had lost a life that day, and Wilbur was nearly positive he was losing one now. They were both losing one now. And Tommy had already lost two lives.

The life that he was most-certainly losing right now was his last. There was nothing he could do about it. Instead, he lay in misery against a mass of bark and leaves, unsure of how they had gotten separated in the first place.

This was all so unfair, and Wilbur didn’t know what else to do except sit there as his life drained into the muddied ground.

And then there was Tommy, with the red-and-white shirt on his back, soaked with rainwater that dripped off his face and hair. His frame was blurry but that was him — that was Tommy, mouth moving quickly but no words reaching his ears. Immediately, Wilbur noticed the fear that jumped brightly up in his brother’s expression, and the original relief he’d felt for his brother’s survival faded in the wake of his own lack of good health.

_Shit._

_“Wil!”_ Words broke through his haze, and Wilbur propped himself upright against the tree, trying not to let himself shake, trying not to appear as weak as he was, even though he knew it was futile. “Wilbur, what—” Tommy didn’t even finish talking. Wilbur could see faint tears brim in blue eyes, and failure stirred deep in his stomach. _I was supposed to protect you._

“Are—” the ex-president croaked, “are you hurt—”

“What? What the hell, no, I’m not hurt—…" Confusion sprung up in his eyes but he waved his hand in dismissal, standing up and awkwardly tugging on Wilbur's sleeve. At the lack of response or even acknowledgment, he tugged harder, words sounding more desperate. "I got them off our trail, I got them away. We gotta run, we gotta go. You gotta get up, ‘n we gotta go, come on.” Tommy was not asking anymore. He was begging his older brother to get up, not because he wanted him to, because he needed him to, and Wilbur removed his right palm from the injury so that Tommy could see. He regretted it instantly. “Oh my God—” 

“It’s—” His words were nothing more than a choked rasp, lifting a hand from the floor to rub at his mouth, where crimson now spilled onto his face and shirt. “—okay. It’s okay.” 

“No— no. C’mon, Wil, big man, let’s go, c’mon.” A hand pulled uselessly at his sleeve and Wilbur shook his head, coughing again, swallowing metallic.

_Big man._ A faint smile traced his lips, and he didn’t know why Tommy flinched back, but scarlet stained his teeth and flickered in his eyes.

“Wil,” Tommy said again, tone more strained than the time prior. “C’mon.” There was a brief silence before his voice quieted, and he whispered, “Please.”

_I’m sorry._ His fist tightened on empty air. _I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, I’m sorry you had to see this happen again. I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough to help you, to get you out of that stupid duel, to keep Schlatt away from here._ Wilbur took a heaving breath, ignoring how blood curdled at his lips like spoiled milk. _I should’ve told Schlatt to just exile me. Leave you be. So you could stay with Tubbo._ Through his hazy vision, he could still see Tommy hovering in front of him, hanging on a reply as if he was clinging onto the final string of hope that things could be alright. That they could go back. That it was all just a misunderstanding.

He had so much he wanted to say, but all he could manage was a desolate mumble: “‘M sorry.” Wilbur’s chest tightened suddenly, and he shut his eyes quickly, mainly because he didn’t want to see the face of the boy who he had failed again and again, secondarily because he didn’t want tears to slip past the barriers he’d been setting up for a very long time. 

Tommy wrapped two arms tightly around him, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, ignoring the slight rise and fall of his younger brother’s shoulders, the way his chest heaved slightly against his bloodied frame — he was crying. His little brother was crying into his chest and he couldn’t do anything.

_Fuck._

Wilbur exhaled sharply, taking another staggering breath in through his mouth. He leaned gently into the hug given to him, lifting a weak arm to pull Tommy closer, as though if neither of them stopped holding on, they’d be alright. He felt how the boy tensed underneath his feeble touch, one that was usually meaningful and kind, with strength drumming in every vein. There was nothing in those veins now. Not even blood. _I’m sorry._

He thought he could hear Tommy apologizing as the color and sparkle of the world faded into blacks and whites. The low whine sounded apologetic, sounded horrified and confused, and every semblance of sense told him to stop being a little bitch and get up, find a health potion, and keep running. But he couldn’t. The road ended here. 

Eventually, Wilbur’s grip loosened. The hug was less meaningful now, and his arm fell limply onto the ground.

There was a single beat of complete and total quiet as Tommy leaned backward, studying the glazed honey-brown optics of his brother, and then he let out a faint keening noise into the empty forest and buried his wet face into his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> how did u like it !! i was lowkey thinking of a second chapter of tommy's like. what he does after this ?? idk i wasn't rly sure since i wanted to try some Real comfort with techno and ranboo perhaps... lmk  
> anyways!! thank u for reading :]


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